Versed In Her Essence
by kitty-moogles
Summary: 'And sometimes he wonders why he does still have these feelings for her, when he's bound.' Oneshot Kelx?


It's that scent again, the one that he always welcomes and always savours. It always makes him think.

It's an incredibly enticing aroma, the smell of her hair and her skin. She has something about her that makes him smile like nothing and no one else can. She is unique, and he loves her for it. He knows he shouldn't be thinking like that. And sometimes he wonders why he does still have these feelings for her, when he's bound. Even though he certainly has the courage to tell her, he cannot. She is forbidden, a love he will never be able to know.

He sometimes regrets it. All the choices he has made in his past have led to this, these guilty seconds he spends mulling over his shadow-bound secrets. They will never see light, and they will never know anything but loneliness. Perhaps, had he done something in his youth, things would be different. But certainly, a relationship with her was forbidden and she was certainly not ready for that kind of thing, even if she'd known how he's always felt about her. So that's all they have ever been; the closest of friends.

He has to rip himself away from these thoughts to keep himself sane. If he thinks too much then he will most certainly do something selfish and lust-inspired, which would not be a good thing. And so his thoughts are always restricted beyond a certain point. As soon as he asks the question, do you ever think she felt the same way, he pulls away from his thoughts and isolates himself from them. Which cannot be good, because one day he will try to find the answer, and be unprepared for it.

He finds himself already leaning in a little closer to catch her scent - her essence - in his mind, though he is so well versed in it he could probably conjure it up in his mind when she is far away. And she looks up, face blank, but hazel eyes smiling to him. His mind sighs. It is always sighing, whenever he sees her, and whenever he allows himself these moments. Sometimes he lies awake at night, and wonders: What would happen if I told her? Do I really love her? Can you really love someone if they have never felt the same way? Or is it just lust that I feel, that I should not be feeling? And then he looks across to the sleeping form by his side, and he shakes the thoughts away. Perhaps it would be best not to know the answer to any of these questions, because that would only make it a heavier burden to bear.

His thoughts drown out the music and his surroundings, until it is only him there, alone with his thoughts. He is dimly aware of her in front of him. He is always aware of her when she is nearby, he is always explicably drawn to her, and if she ever knew how hard it has been these long years to keep his thoughts in line and to keep conversation from veering into places he doesn't want it to go... well, he doesn't know. But occasionally he wishes he did, but does not allow himself the luxury.

Love really is a painful thing, if it is love he is feeling. He should probably know if it is love; he is married, and should know love like a nursery rhyme. But, with her, things are so much more complex, and he can't be sure. But how can you ever know what love is? How can you be sure it is not some other nameless emotion that burns in your blood, one that we do not know? He never feels like he was hit by Cupid's arrow, or that he knew as soon as he saw her; he just knows that things have always been this way.

He supposes philosophical thoughts such as these are completely endless, going round in circles until he is so disorientated he feels as though he will never know the answer to anything. Sometimes he feels so alone, even though he wears a wedding ring twisted round his finger, as if he stands on a platform in the centre of some great darkness. And every once in a while, there is a faint light, like a bog demon come to lure him to his demise; but it is her, the one he loves, or lusts after. And then she leaves again, oblivious to his fate. Maybe if he told her, she would dive in and take him away from his lonely platform, floating in the murky shadows. But he can't bring himself to tell her. Stewing on the matter over so many years has made things incredibly difficult to divulge.

His thoughts begin to drift away and he notices the music is slowing to a stop. He glances round the ballroom - yes, everyone is still dancing away like enchanted dolls - and there is his wife, talking jovially with a friend. No, the world does not stop when his thoughts become dark and questioning, and no, no one knows when he slips away from reality like that. He glances down at her, feeling his skin burn beneath his shirt as it grazes her waist, but she is consumed by thoughts too, and does not notice. She is watching the air, eyes glazed.

When the music stops, he begins to lead her from the dance floor. Someone is waiting for her, almost bouncing on their toes in anticipation, wanting to ask for a dance. He notices these things a lot. Perhaps it is because she inspires some sort of superhuman senses in him, to always know when someone is looking at her with affection, or when she looks at someone and secretly desires them. Of course, these are not often things he wants to know, and generally only make him feel jealous and/or wishful. Which leads him back to his thoughts. See? A never ending cycle of dark thoughts.

He sighs audibly.

Concern washing over her face, she looks up at him and gazes at him searchingly for several moments. And then a smile, almost sorrowful and regretful, is twisted from her lips, and she pats his arm. "It's okay. I don't think I understand, but everything will work out eventually. That is fate's way."

And then she leaves him to talk with her old friends, and he is left alone. He does not move; he stands frozen, and people bustle around him in their usual manner as they greet old friends and welcome their spouse. His eyes are locked on her, and he can no more draw them away than stop his despised desire. "If things are meant to work out... then fate must work slowly. I have been waiting for years. Perhaps it is just meant to be this way." It is just a tiny whisper, and no one hears - so insignificant in a world of ignored and unwanted emotion.

And with out another word to anyone else, he leaves.

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That night, he stands at the window, his wife sleeping soundly in their bed. The room is dark and cold, but he does not realise; this is what his mind is like, and he is long used to it. He looks out across the murky night sky, littered with stars, and sees one gently driving its way down to the horizon - a shooting star. He stares so hard at it his view reduces to just a narrow slit, and he wishes with all his heart. With all his soul, with all his life force, with everything he has - he wishes.

He doesn't know if it will come true, and he isn't even sure if he wants it to come true. But maybe it will draw her attention, and she will know.

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He is solemn as he takes a seat at the mess hall with a bowl of steaming porridge cradled in his hands. He can recall the night past with such liquid clarity that it cannot be driven from his mind. And then she slides into the seat opposite him with a similar bowl of porridge, and sets it in front of her, face blank. Her hazel eyes are slightly shadowed, chestnut brown hair a little tousled; and he sees the same beauty he has been seeing in her since they were young pages. She catches his eye and he recognises the same smile from the ball the evening before, and then she says simply, "I think I understand now."

Maybe, just maybe, she will burn away the darkness.

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**A/N: Inspired by some extremely philosophical thoughts and the smell of Herbal Essences shampoo around the house as I woke up this morning.**

**In case you couldn't really work it out, that was all about Neal. There are other possibilities though, so think what you like. I just wanted to write, and don't mind what sort of pairing or meaning you take from this.**

** Thank you for reading.  
**


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